


Imperium

by lizilla



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Multi, Power Play, Roughness, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:32:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizilla/pseuds/lizilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everything is about sex. Except sex. Sex is about power."</p><p>Three stories. Three dynamics. One day. </p><p>(Merry Christmas to Livenudebigfoot! Hope you enjoy your secret santa gift. :])</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/gifts).



> Also includes a fanmix (http://8tracks.com/adventurous0/imperium)!

**I.**

Joss Carter brews her coffee dark. She wakes before the sun every day out of habit. At her window seat, she watches the sun rise, murmuring to herself.   

The man she once called Scarface – “You can call me Tony, Joss” – sleeps naked, wrapped in her down comforter, peaceful and quiet. She tries to not wake him with her thoughts, loud as they are. 

She didn’t mean this. 

She didn’t mean to smile when he flicked his espresso-brown eyes at her over wine.  She didn’t mean to laugh at his jokes, accept his calls or meet him outside a dive bar at 2am. She almost didn’t mean to fuck him on the patio after he whispered to her in hot breaths, “Do what you want.”

Almost.   

Joss had been so used to tearing down bravado, the constant umbrella of ego over every soldier, every rookie, every blind date that Marconi’s realism was a relief. She did not have to erode his power chip by chip or fight him for her place in a conversation. There was no law to be thrown down, no sass to throw back. Marconi gave himself to her on a silver platter like an _antipasto_ to be devoured. 

When the nights are theirs, he lets her cup her hands around his face and kiss him gently, a goddess giving life. He lets her weave her thighs around his legs, locking him in place until he begs for release. He lets her tie his wrists to the bedposts with colorful scarves while she makes him moan for her, writhe for her, come for her.    

He lets, he lets, _he lets_. But when she tugs at his hips and moans, begging for his body, he delivers in swift movements.  When she needs his strong arms wrapped around her, when she needs to be taken from behind, when she needs someone to leave her limping in the morning, she tells him. If nothing else, Tony is good at taking orders and he never disappoints. 

Sometimes Joss catches him looking at her with more than a lustful twinkle in his eye. It makes her deliriously angry. Her brow twitches and she feels the need to put up a blinking neon sign that says, “ _This is not a thing. This is not real_.” For all she knows, he reports everything they do to Elias. They sit down over pasta and discuss how his fingers make her cry out like a banshee, how his mouth makes her legs quake for days afterwards. But she knows they don’t and she knows the neon sign is more for her own head, her own eyes that probably turn doe-tinged more than she’d like. 

Perhaps it isn’t real. Maybe this is the longest con ever built – an Eiffel Tower of lies. It seems like so much trouble for a power play. One day he’s going to put a knife to her neck and that’ll be it. One day his henchmen will run in on them making love and take her for collateral. Or none of that is ever going to happen and she’ll have to, god forbid, face the fact that he’s good to her out of some kind of genuine feeling. One of these things is more terrifying than the rest. 

Joss hears him stir behind her. Without looking, she asks if he’d like some coffee. He says no, he’s more of a tea kind of guy. Or white wine if you’ve got it, Joss – it’s five o’clock somewhere. 

It’s such a perfect answer, it makes her angry. _This_ is perfect and it makes her angry.   

She slams her cup on the table, wordlessly turning towards Tony’s smirk.  Joss kisses him roughly on the lips and pushes him back down on the bed. She places one knee on his chest and watches his eyes come alight.  

**II.**

Light breaks through the window and frames her face beautifully while she screams. 

Shaw tightens the nipple clamps, bringing more blush to Root’s breasts and a smile to her face. Root yells out before grabbing Shaw’s hair and dragging the woman’s lips to hers.  It’s noon and the sun from the window burns lightly on their skin, exposed and raw. As they roll on the bed, tugging at limbs and hair, Shaw comes precariously close to orgasm, her eyes slamming shut until Root slaps her across the face and murmurs something about “not before me.” Perturbed, Shaw bites down on her tender shoulder until she yelps. 

It’s like this every time. They fight and growl like proud lionesses, each wanting the last piece of flesh, the last beautiful piece of reward. Neither one comes out of it unscathed. And after they’ve sweat and bled themselves to orgasms, after the war, when they should just be staring at each other blankly – aren’t they both machines, self-built or not– they find each other’s hands or lips or waists. They wrap themselves around each other and sleep, leaving the inevitable repairs for the afterglow. 

Shaw runs her hands through Root’s hair sometimes when she sleeps. Some part of her logically wonders if this is love. That’s before she remembers that emotions don’t settle well in her head, don’t rest in her heart. Feelings are difficult, but instincts – admiration, protection, possessiveness –Shaw understands. 

Root is her gleaming assault rifle, her infallible combat boots, her priceless silk dress. Root is unbreakable in the physical realm. She doesn’t cry when hair gets pulled, she moans louder. She doesn’t want to talk about feelings; she wants to discuss the effectiveness of flash grenades. Root sometimes looks up at Shaw like a star struck child, asking her about the places she’s been – _tell me about Red Square_ , she begs _. Have you ever seen the Aurora Borealis? Tell me, please_. Shaw can’t help but smile even though she’s such a brat sometimes. She tells the stories. 

In reality, all the places Root asks about are dull in Shaw’s eyes. Maybe there was good food, nice buildings, quality sex, but she wouldn’t have noticed. She was probably too busy killing the locals. But something about Root’s rose-colored glasses, the way she wants to experience the good parts, makes Shaw embellish as much as she can. She can’t love her, but she can lie to her.  

When Shaw is out resentfully saving the world, Root makes little prayers – not really, more like commands – to her child-God, her beautiful Machine, to watch over her lover. Root needs Shaw in the way that she needs a grenade launcher: not essential to life, but my god, would it be fucking dull without. Shaw gives her something no man or machine can give her – belief. Shaw doesn’t need to soften her blows or pull back the pain because she knows Root is not breakable. Root doesn’t have to be a lady, doesn’t have to operate on a ‘human’ plane with Shaw. They are two pieces of the same diamond – they can scratch each other, but never break. 

They agree on two things: sex and their own mutually assured destruction. Root and Shaw stand fully aware that they’ll wreck themselves trying to be heroes or perhaps something less resplendent. They will watch the city afire, basking in the orange glow, or they’ll be the tinder. 

They will be together when the shit hits the fan, when the fire fades to ash. They are together, sweating and catching their breath, kicking off blankets and drifting asleep when the noon light fades to a dreary grey.

**III.**

Grey raindrops clatter on Lionel’s window as he checks his watch for the tenth time. The bastard is still late, it’s still cold, and he’s still angry. Lionel’s squinting out the window at the soaking trees when the passenger door slams shut– he jumps. John smiles, obviously proud of himself. Lionel doesn’t say a word – not yet – and puts the car into drive.   

They navigate the city’s wet roads for ten minutes before Fusco starts in on him. 

 _What do you think I do all day, eh? Wait for your ass?_ He does. Lionel is well aware that John does this to make a point. _You think I got time for this shit? It’s raining, I got plans, you gotta stop taking so much time on your hair._ Lionel is being shown that he runs on John’s time. He’s a ticking second hand on John’s clock face, trailing round and round. _It’s bullshit._  

John doesn’t say a word until they walk into his loft, where he says _Min’s_ and then walks off to get changed out of wet clothing. Lionel knows to order their usual from Lao Min’s. He wonders sometimes if John ever eats anything but takeout. He also wonders about other people, what their relationships are like right now. Are they cooking food together, not wordlessly ordering takeout? Are they having actual conversations about real things, like the weather or politics? 

Lionel stops wondering when John comes back into the living room in loose sweatpants and no shirt. He remembers that other people’s relationships are built upon love and mutual respect, not lust and manipulation.  He spends half the meal wordlessly daydreaming about the potential of any form of respect in this partnership while John quietly watches CNN and occasionally looks to see if Lionel’s eyes have wandered yet. Of course they have, and he knows it. He knows Lionel’s eyes move from his lo mein to John’s collarbones, from the television to rest, staring, at the waistband of his sweats. 

It takes fifteen minutes after the meal for Lionel to stop dreaming, stop pouting, and remember life before this.  When John grabs him roughly around the neck to bring him in for a kiss, Lionel remembers what a “relationship” was like. Arguments, fights about stupid shit like takeout that he and John never have to have. John bites Lionel’s lip and he remembers all the choices that complicated life before this. _Do I text her today, or tomorrow?  Is he playing a game or is he just not into me?_ As John lightly but firmly pushes Lionel to his knees, he remembers why this works. Lionel takes him into his mouth and moans, vibrations running through John’s entire being. When John grips his hair and whispers, “Good job, Lionel,” Fusco remembers that this is a blissful existence because the choices are made for him and for his own good. 

In the beginning, he didn’t like being owned. Lionel tried to convince himself he was his own man. It wasn’t even sexual, then – it was just John holding blackmail above his head, possessing his work hours. But so it went until John needed to possess all of him. Lionel could never explain this to anyone. It sounds so malicious when you say it out loud. _He owns me, you know?_ But John is a merciful ruler, a just king. Lionel knows this when John takes the extra time to make him comfortable, like he does now, slowly taking off Fusco’s slightly rain-drenched clothing. He knows when John remembers to press the places that make him jump, avoid the places that make him cringe. 

John is like a track for Lionel’s coaster, a guiding force towards not careening off course. While Carter treated him as a baby bird, lovingly directing him to do morally sound things out of the nest, Reese leashed him like a fight dog out of line. Honestly, Lionel isn’t sure if John is the greater good or if this is just Stockholm Syndrome. But when Reese deftly uses his strong fingers to open Lionel up, to bring him to the edge of orgasm but carefully, almost lovingly, guide him back on course, he feels like the best kind of good.

Reese is rough with Lionel but only to the limits he knows he can handle. He thrusts with vigor, almost too deep, until Lionel buries his head in the pillow. Even a just king has to assert his power, and John is never above showing that he is the alpha dog. Sometimes it’s obvious, like this, when Lionel is begging to come and John is whispering behind him, _you’ll have to be patient, won’t you?_ Sometimes it’s subtle. Reese chooses where his orgasms happen and when they happen, so when he pulls out to release over Lionel’s back, he’s not the least bit surprised. 

It’s evening by the time Reese throws him a wet towel.  They clean up and curl under the covers. Lionel is quietly back to daydreaming of _more_ when Reese asks him about the weather. Fusco smiles. 

After a nap, when they get breakfast at a 24-hour diner with dinge on the walls, Reese orders for Lionel, locking eyes with his. It’s a loving, firm reminder – _you are mine._ That’s the way this is. Blissful. Insistent. Probably fundamentally fucked up.

John reaches for Lionel’s hand as the sun rises. 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! Hope you enjoyed it. I'm making a mental note to also write your Root/Shaw Hannibal Fusion Fic because I loved messing with them so much. Glory to your power boner. Love ya! <3


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